


The Plan of Getting Them to Admit They Love Each Other and Get Married

by IneffableDoll



Series: Operation: Grey Feathers [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexuality, Can't believe that's a tag, Crowley & Anathema Device Friendship, Crowley Overthinks (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Domestic, First Kiss, Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Marriage Proposal, Multi, Pining, Rating for Language, Sappy, Some Humor, Weddings, it's a pine forest out here folks, not theirs, pine and sap and all, totally not projecting on pepper or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24868297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Crowley’d never once thought about marrying Aziraphale. He knew he loved the bloody angel, yes, and he was fairly certain Aziraphale felt – something? An emotion? A positive vibe? In the demon’s direction. They were friends, best friends, even. Nearly two years past the Apocalypse That Fell Short and they still saw each other on a nigh daily basis. There were definitely some…good feelings in the air.But now that Anathema had mentioned it, it was all he could think about.----This is a sequel to “Idle Hands Are the Devil’s Playthings.”
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device, Crowley & Pepper (Good Omens)
Series: Operation: Grey Feathers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799368
Comments: 26
Kudos: 107





	The Plan of Getting Them to Admit They Love Each Other and Get Married

**Author's Note:**

> I’m writing this sequel primarily because it’s yet another opportunity to write a love confession fic for these idiots, and really, did you really think I could pass that up? Pfft, who do you think I am, someone with restraint? Dignity? Think again.  
> Most of this is just Crowley being a mess and overthinking absolutely everything.  
> Title from Anathema in the first fic, thanks Book Girl.

It’d been a nice wedding, all things considered.

Crowley, Aziraphale, and myriad humans from Tadfield, London, and the colonies – States, they’re the States now – watched on as Book Girl and Witchfinder Boy declared their eternal (as if they knew what eternity was!) love for each other and kissed in a garden lit with fireflies that Crowley was quite sure weren’t native to this area. Aziraphale had no comment on the matter and seemed quite unsure what he was insinuating, dear.

Anathema wore a sharp white suit with an Edwardian cut to the waistcoat and jacket, and Crowley mourned yet again that he’d slept through that particular era of history. They really knew what they were doing with women’s sleeves, then. At least he skipped out on whatever the Hell they did with skirts and bustle pads in the 1880s.

Newt, meanwhile – the seedy thing, really didn’t have a clue how lucky he was, not that Crowley had an opinion on the matter – looked for all the world like he was high as a kite, giddy on love and wedding things. He regarded his surroundings like he was in a dream and smiled at Book Girl like she was the moon. It wasn’t achingly adorable at all and didn’t make something akin to _longing_ twist in Crowley’s gut. That would be absurd.

Thing was, all he could think about as the wedding progressed was what Anathema had said to him back in September. _“You’d better invite me to your damn wedding, Crowley!”_ she’d shouted at him from her front porch. He’d nearly tripped at the insinuation – the very idea!

He’d never once thought about marrying Aziraphale. He knew he loved the bloody angel, yes, and he was fairly certain Aziraphale felt – something? An emotion? A positive vibe? In the demon’s direction. They were friends, best friends, even. Nearly two years past the Apocalypse That Fell Short and they still saw each other on a nigh daily basis. There were definitely some…good feelings in the air.

But now that she’d said it, it was all he could think about.

Himself, in a black wedding gown, sheer sleeves and a train just long enough to be a bother to everyone around him. Oh, imagine the contempt of the traditionalists, especially if he stuck with a male corporation for the day. He always played it by ear. Open back, tailored bodice, maybe do something a little different with the hair. He liked having it short, lately, but there was still plenty to work with in the pouf above his forehead. Curls? Curls.

Then Aziraphale, doffing his Victorian cream for, oh, maybe a 40s suit for him. Just modern enough to not feel horribly outdated, but still technically outdated. High waisted pants, a nice, tailored jacket, all white, maybe pinstriped (with blue, the same shade as his eyes). Potentially even an actual _tie_ if he could manage it, though he couldn’t get past the mental image that it would still be tartan. Fuck, he kinda wanted it to be tartan. Just to be sure it was Aziraphale.

He may or may not have come very close to making a Wedding Pinterest board, but Satan bless it, he was not going to fall for one of his own demonic inventions again, and Pinterest, land of the unlinked resources and stolen artwork, would _not_ be the next one to do him in.

All through the vows, through the reception, the dancing, he couldn’t stop wondering what it might be like. If it was his wedding. He knew it didn’t bear thinking about – even if Aziraphale did love him back, it was so human, he wouldn’t want to – but it seemed his brain lacked any filter that day.

Just when he thought his daydreams couldn’t get worse (better? Hard to say), they were interrupted by a child’s tone. “Pronouns today?”

Crowley grew his gaze down from where he’d been subconsciously cataloging what foods Aziraphale would want at their Wedding That Wouldn’t to see Pepper there, in a dark suit and hair done up with ribbons. It was calculatedly both masculine and feminine, firmly on the spectrum of androgynous.

“Mmm. ‘Him’ for now,” he told her.

She nodded. “Okay. I think it’s so cool that you’re genderfluid, Mr. Crowley,” she said with that air of purposefulness, the firm tone of one who dared anyone who heard to contradict her and knowing they’d regret it if they did.

Crowley cracked a smirk. Humans tended to flip-flop on their attitudes regarding sex and gender and presentation, but with the dominance of Christianity, it’d been a while since he’d not had to pretend to be different people entirely for the gender that he felt like being. The 21st century – 61st, rather, but whatever – was shaping up to be a much nicer one for that than it had been in a while. He sent a silent thanks to Marsha P. Johnson on principle.

“Gender is a sham,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and tipping onto the back pegs. “Glad you humans are getting on board with that, somewhat.”

Pepper nodded sagely. “My parents still don’t understand that gendered stuff is _lame_. Wanted me to wear a dress just because I’m a girl,” she complained plaintively. Crowley smiled wider. He loved when kids got to this age and they started questioning everything they’d ever been taught and defying their superiors. It was his favorite, before they got brainwashed by the system and fell back in line. He didn’t think Pepper ever would, though.

“Preach it,” he said with an air of mischief.

“Can you say that when you’re a demon?”

“I can say what I like.”

“Fair enough. Say, is Aziraphale nonbinary, too?”

Crowley lifted his eyebrows. “Demons and angels are all nonbinary, by the current terms. You know that.”

“Right, but he never changes his pronouns or body,” she pointed out. “I always ask, but it’s the same.”

“Aziraphale doesn’t like change,” Crowley told her simply. “He chose the gender that gave him access to all the books and knowledge and important people and kinda…stuck with it.”

She made a face. “Ugh. The education system is so sexist.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Crowley leaned forward a bit. “Seems to me like we need someone with a strong voice who can demand some changes, don’t you think?”

She nodded slowly, squinting off into the distance. “Yeah, we do.”

“What’re you two talking about?” came a soft, amused voice. Crowley looked up to see his angel – _the_ angel, Satan, dude – standing beside the table, looking fondly at the two of them. Crowley made a face. Aziraphale already knew Crowley had a weak spot for kids, but he always got so damn cheesy and soft when he witnessed evidence of it.

“Aziraphale, why don’t you like change?” Pepper asked point-blank. Crowley winced and Aziraphale looked taken aback.

“Well, well I…” he stammered.

“Pepper, I heard Shadwell is a homophobe,” Crowley interjected quickly.

Her eyes shone angrily. “I’m gonna go talk to him,” she said determinedly before turning on her heel and stalking over to the table where he and that medium with the bright orange hair were sitting. He might’ve felt a little bad for Shadwell (though he was, in fact, as heteronormative as one might expect) if he hadn’t caused Aziraphale’s decorporation two years back – inadvertently, but with intent, and demons hold grudges like no one’s business – but as it was, he turned his attention back to the angel.

“My bad,” he said with a wave of the hand as Aziraphale sat primly by him, looking a bit put out. “She was just parroting a reckless comment I said.”

“You think I don’t like change?” Aziraphale asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Crowley lifted an eyebrow back at him. “You’re wearing a formal suit you bought in 1876, you live in a bookshop you opened in 1800, and you haven’t read anything published after 1950.”

Aziraphale pouted. “To be fair, I simply have too many things to read without bringing modern literature into it.”

“ _The Catcher in the Rye_ in not modern.”

“I did read _To Kill a Mockingbird!”_

“That’s still the 60s. Point is,” Crowley continued, leaning his elbows on the table, “you don’t tend to make changes quickly, that’s all.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and looked away. “Well. I simply like to go at my pace. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Crowley realized belatedly that the angel was twisting his hands together and fiddling with his pocket watch chain, a couple of his most obvious signs of anxiety. He’d hurt him. “Of course not,” Crowley replied immediately, expression softening. “It’s not a criticism. Sorry. Forget I said anything.”

Aziraphale looked at him a bit hesitantly. “You don’t mind that I’m slow?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nope. You’re perfect as you are, angel.” Blinking, he turned away when he felt heat rising in his cheeks. That was a bit more than he’d meant to say, but hopefully Aziraphale wouldn’t take too much notice.

When no reply was forthcoming, Crowley chanced a glance at him. Aziraphale was beaming at him softly, so Crowley looked away again.

“Don’t make it a thing,” he gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Dear, that was so-“

“Shut. It.”

Aziraphale huffed, still smiling. “You fiend.” Crowley could taste the affection behind it, and it made his head swirl.

Sometime later, just before Anathema and Newt would drive off into the sunset or whatever, Book Girl got him aside.

“Hey. You okay?” she murmured close enough so no one else would hear. “Your aura has been very conflicting all evening.”

Crowley winced. The mortifying ordeal of being known was just as bad with humans as it always had been in the rare times that he befriended one, worse so for her being an occultist. “Not a problem,” he replied. “Just planning evil schemes for my next trip to Venice.”

“Right, sure I totally believe you.” She folded her arms. Quieter than before, she whispered conspiratorially, “Have you told him yet?”

His nose scrunched up and he glared at her. “When will you stop asking about it?” he hissed.

“When you tell him, most likely.”

“Well, I’m not going to, Book Girl!”

She sighed. “His aura is reaching for yours more than usual, today,” she said softly. “Might be good timing.”

Crowley regarded her. “When did this become a thing, where you meddle in my nonexistent love life?”

She smirked at him. “I was fully content to leave you alone, you know. No one asked you to call me and vent about your feelings on a monthly basis after you found out I knew. Could always get a therapist if you don’t want me bugging you, but you asked for this.”

 _“Did not._ And I would have to pay a therapist, wouldn’t I?”

“You literally have infinite money.”

“It’d wreck the economy.”

“You’re a demon.”

He grunted. “Go off on your honeymoon, would you? Your husband is getting accosted by the Them.” Sure enough, Newt was surrounded by all four members and looked very out of his element. He could only guess what they were asking him about.

She sighed affectionally, a small smile lighting her lips. “I should go rescue him, shouldn’t I?” She looked back over at Crowley. “Still. Think about what I said. I’m sick of your mopey phone calls.”

“I’m not mopey!” (He was.)

“Whatever they are,” Book Girl replied with a sniff, adjusting her black frames, “I just don’t understand what’s stopping you. You love each other. I know you understand that.”

But the thing was, Crowley didn’t. He didn’t understand that. He’d spent six thousand years denying that the angel loved him back – when it became clear that denying his own feelings was futile – and he wasn’t about to stop that anytime soon. One human’s word was not enough to uproot a hundred lifetimes of denial and _I don’t even like you_ and _we’re not friends_ and the constant impending despair of an inevitable doom were his affections discovered by the Powers That Be.

So, you know, little things is all.

“Have a good time, Anathema,” he said with a weary smile, gesturing her toward her lover.

She brightened. “Oh, so you _do_ know my name!” she teased. “Wait, did you just bless me, or was that just words?”

“You’ll never know. Now get out of here!”

Anathema grinned at him and joined her husband, dragging him away from the inquisitive children, and before long, Dick Turpin was ambling down the street toward the airport.

The party died down after the couple left and Aziraphale and Crowley ducked out early. They were staying in Jasmine Cottage for the night and driving back to London in the morning, at Anathema’s invitation, and he knew Aziraphale was just itching to spend the night reading everything on Anathema’s bookcase. They were largely old occult texts, which amused Crowley when the angel expressed interest in them, but Aziraphale waved him away with the excuse that he found human magic fascinating.

They drove in silence, both wearied from the long day. Neither was used to so much social interaction and felt a bit drained from it, so Crowley was content to lapse into a comfortable quiet. Contrary to expectation, Crowley was not an “extrovert,” as the humans called it. He’d always felt tired after talking to people; it was an active effort, even when he enjoyed it.

With most people, anyway. There were exceptions. An exception.

When they arrived at the house, Aziraphale made a beeline for the books – Book Girl had given him full permission to read whatever he liked, after all – and Crowley invaded her cupboards for the tea. He’d visited here often enough in the past two years to know where to find it.

“Oh, why, thank you,” Aziraphale said as Crowley set the steaming mug beside the angel where he’d settled down on the borrowed sofa, a stack of a dozen books on the coffee table and one in hand. He’d taken off his coat and shoes, looking soft and comfortable and ready for a night of reading.

“Think you’ll survive drinking from a different mug for once?” Crowley teased.

Aziraphale studied the mug. Ah, fuck. He hadn’t looked when he’d pulled from the cupboard and, emblazoned on the side of this one, was “World’s Best Fiancé” in black fancy script over white porcelain.

“Well. I’ll miss the mug you gave me, I suppose, but this will do.” Crowley wasn’t sure whether to read into that. No, definitely don’t.

“I’ll head to the guest bedroom then.” Crowley ran a hand through his hair and made for the hallway. “’Night, angel.”

“Goodnight, dear.” And if the domesticity of being in a cozy cottage, paired with the endearment, didn’t go straight to Crowley’s heart–

He closed the door behind him softly and shucked off his sunglasses and jacket to the floor, landing in a faceplant on the queen-sized bed with a huff, not even bothering to crawl under the covers. He spared a thought to the fact that Anathema had told him, “you two can use the guest bedroom,” so pointedly, now understanding why, as there was just the one bed.

He groaned into the plush comforter.

Crowley felt more depleted than he had in a long time, and perhaps a little heartsick. Much as he hated the term, it was fitting. It wasn’t so much that he was sad, but he also wasn’t quite happy. It just felt like there was something off about him. After spending a day at an event dedicated to love, spending two-thirds of the time imagining marrying Aziraphale and knowing it was nothing more than a dream, he just felt hollowed and empty at all the potential of what could never be.

He was contented with this, he told himself. He’d been telling himself this for centuries. Millennia. He didn’t need more than friendship. Friendship was great, after all! Especially the way it was now. They saw each other almost every day, they ate together and drank together and laughed together. And Aziraphale, he was different lately. Freer, more real with his emotions. No more passive-aggressive comments when he felt Crowley had been at the bookshop too long to be safe; now he slept on the sofa from time to time. They were both changing, he felt, for the better. Freedom was a great look on them, and it was, well, good. It was wonderful.

But, loathe as he was to admit it, Crowley couldn’t help but want to _tell_ Aziraphale. He wanted to use the words, to tell the angel how loved he was. He was a selfish bastard for it, but these verbalizations of thought had been trapped for so long. And now that so much else of his being had adjusted to the freedom of living out from under Hell’s thumb, his feelings jumped to his lips multiple times a day, trying to escape past his teeth.

He was hopelessly in love, and wasn’t that something.

Part of him was just so tired, he didn’t even care if Aziraphale reciprocated (this was a lie). He just didn’t want to feel trapped anymore. The room was stifling, the humid air was stifling, his clothes too tight. He thought to sit up and tear off his shirt but didn’t bother.

He knew Aziraphale felt bereft after leaving Heaven, by losing that connection. He’d had a lot to get over, just as Crowley had, really, even if Crowley didn’t miss Hell a snit. They’d helped each other where they could, and they relapsed sometimes into old habits. Crowley would disappear for a month, forgetting they didn’t have to keep their distance. Aziraphale would bolt halfway through a meal with some half-formed excuse, forgetting they could be seen together. It was a process.

And they were growing, piece by piece, learning together. Just…not quite together enough.

Aziraphale deserved to know he was loved, Crowley thought quite suddenly.

The angel had spent so long – his entire existence, really – trying to meet impossible expectations. Crowley hadn’t even known how bad it was until after everything when Aziraphale admitted how Gabriel would make fun of him for his weight, and for eating food, and for wanting to help the humans – for a million little things, all the things that made Aziraphale wonderful.

Maybe Crowley really should tell him. For that, at least. It’d be awkward, yes, but then Aziraphale would know not to doubt himself, as he had at the wedding earlier, if Crowley could use his words to tell him all the ways Gabriel and Sandalaphon and the other gits of Heaven were wrong.

He’d once told Crowley that he went too fast for him, but that hadn’t been a no, and as such had been a flame to the demon’s hope for decades now. He’d felt sure since then that he’d wait for Aziraphale to make the first move if anything was ever going to change. But maybe he could just tell him, anyway. Nothing had to come of it. No expectations. Just…honesty.

He drifted off to sleep with that disgustingly sweet sentiment settled in his chest.

When light fluttered in the next morning, Crowley groaned pathetically. It was too early and too bright. He pulled the covers over his head to encapsulate himself in darkness.

He paused quite suddenly. He hadn’t been under the comforter when he fell asleep, had he?

Sitting up slowly, he blinked himself awake. Sure enough, he was tucked under the comforter, in addition to a spare blanket (he ran cold, even in summer). His shoes were also stripped from his feet, set together by the door. His jacket was folded up on the nightstand, glasses set snug atop it.

Crowley felt his love bursting out of his chest. “Oh, angel,” he murmured into the empty room. He felt much better than he had the night before and got up feeling light. He remembered his conviction from last night and, while it certainly brought an onslaught of anxiety, he still felt quite sure he wanted to do it. Ya know. Soon.

Changing his outfit from yesterday’s formalwear to something more casual with a snap, he took up his sunglasses and pocketed them.

When he exited the room and meandered back to the sitting room where he’d left Aziraphale the night before, he was unsurprised to see the angel doubled over a book. The stack he’d gathered before was now split in two, one taller than the other, and Crowley hazarded the correct guess that he knew which was the “read” pile.

“Morning, angel,” he said, the casual nonchalance somewhat ruined by the graininess of his just-woke-up voice. He realized belated that his hair was a mess and ran his fingers through it, miracling it as he went.

“Ah, Crowley!” Aziraphale replied, looking up with a beaming smile. He had his silly little spectacles perched on his nose. Crowley loved them. “Is it morning already?”

“Nearly ten.”

“Goodness. Time does fly sometimes, doesn’t?” He regarded the three books on the table that he hadn’t gotten to, yet. “I really thought I could finish these before we headed back to London. That’s such a shame.”

Crowley grinned affectionately. He knew this dance. “Anathema said we could stay as long as we wanted. They’re gone for two weeks in the Mediterranean, so there’s no rush.”

Aziraphale visibly brightened, maybe even a bit literally, angel that he was. “Oh, really? That would be delightful if we could stay a touch longer! Just long enough to read these ones here.”

“Sure, angel.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Suits me. I’m technically tempting you into reading more occult books, after all.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course. That’s what this is, naturally.” He smiled at Crowley indulgently and the demon couldn’t weather that gaze for too long, so he turned and sauntered to the kitchen.

“Tea? Cocoa? Coffee?” he asked as he set on the kettle, opening the fridge for milk and miracling in some fancy chocolate bars the angel was very particular about.

“Cocoa, dear, if you wouldn’t mind,” was the expected reply. It was his usual morning drink, after all.

A few minutes later, Crowley brought out the mug for him and retrieved the one from last night. He didn’t realize he’d inadvertently used the opposing monochrome pairing to it, “World’s Best Fiancé” written across this one as well in white text over black, until he’d already set it down.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said warmly, taking it up to sip it with a happy hum. “Mmm, it’s perfect.”

Crowley breathed a sigh of relief that the angel hadn’t noticed (old habits and all). “No problem.” He tossed himself onto the opposite end of the rather large couch and pulled out his phone.

A few hours passed in this manner, Aziraphale reading and Crowley scrolling. The demon occasionally miracled the angel’s cocoa back to temperature and reminded him to drink it. It was mostly quiet, interrupted only by the tactile sound of turning pages, parchment on parchment, each of their quiet inhales and exhales that they didn’t need.

All the while, Crowley thought about the best way to bring this whole I’m-in-love-with-you thing up. How does it go in movies? He’d seen his fair number of romcoms. Big confession in an airport, big confession interrupting a wedding, big confession in a garden (hmm, that might be…touchy), big confession here and there. Very dramatic, lots of violin.

But they weren’t really like that. No, Aziraphale wasn’t. Crowley was all for the dramatics. He’d had his stint in theatre, after all. But he didn’t think Aziraphale would appreciate something big and showy, as that wasn’t exactly the point. What was the point? Just…to tell him, for the sake of it.

Could Crowley really look up and say, “I love you,” just like that? Is that how this worked? The words were right there, just three tiny things that humans imbued with such meaning. Could he breach that distance, put his heart on the line, reveal the thing that he’d hidden inside himself for so long, just in an instant of honesty?

And is that what Aziraphale truly wanted, anyway? The angel clearly did like him, even took efforts to _take care of him_ or whatever. But that was likely platonic, so how to go about telling him without making him uncomfortable? Maybe he should do this another day. Yes, that’s what he’d do.

 _Conscience does make cowards of us all_ , he thought with some irony.

Aziraphale shut his finished book with a thud and a satisfied sigh. He saw Crowley already looking at him and the demon, remembering he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, quickly glanced back to his phone.

“That was excellent,” the angel sighed happily. Crowley looked back up to see him nod in that way of his, eyes flittering about as though he was remembering his place in the world. “Right. Tea, dear?”

“Sure.”

Aziraphale bustled off to prepare tea for them, which Crowley had left out on the counter. He knew Aziraphale didn’t visit here as often as he did and likely wouldn’t’ve remembered where the tea cabinet was.

He returned after a few minutes and handed Crowley a mug, which he accepted gratefully. They lapsed back into silence as Aziraphale settled back down and took up the next book, adding the last to the taller stack.

Crowley took small sips, staring around the room. It was a cozy place. A fireplace with a mantle, the bookshelf, flat-screen TV. There was witch memorabilia all around, including a smaller, separate bookshelf for what seemed to be conspiracy theory magazines. It was quaint and cozy. If he and Aziraphale got a place, he’d want it to be a bit like this, though tidier and with less pathetic plants. That cactus wasn’t even trying.

He nearly choked on his tea, coughing, when he realized he was at the pitiful point of imagining himself in a cottage with Aziraphale. Good L…Whomever, he was helpless, wasn’t he?

“You alright, dear?” Aziraphale asked, looking up from his book with a crease to his eyebrows.

“’M fine,” Crowley reassured.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, just went down the wrong pipe.” He gestured with his mug, and that was when he noticed it. He was holding the ugly as sin “World’s Best Fiancé” mug that matched the one Aziraphale was still using, now for tea instead of cocoa.

He froze, eyes darting between the two cups. It didn’t mean anything. He just used them because they were already out, is all. Nothing more.

“Noticed, did you?” Aziraphale asked softly. Crowley stared at him. It was just a silly little joke was all. No special reason for it. It didn’t mean anything.

“Ngk,” Crowley said, though it wasn’t exactly a word or complete thought.

“It’s not, ah, strictly related,” Aziraphale said softly, “but I wanted to talk with you about something, Crowley.”

The demon blinked and averted his wide-eyed gaze. “W-What about?” He set the mug down.

“Would you look at me, dear?”

Crowley begrudgingly did so, wishing he had his sunglasses on.

“The thing is,” Aziraphale said, tenderly as though to a frightened child, “I’ve been wanting to bring this up for some time, but I rather lacked the courage.”

Aziraphale placed a bookmark in the book and set it aside, folding his hands in front of him. When the eye contact returned, it burned in Crowley’s retinas. Crowley tried to make an inquisitive grunt as a reply and Aziraphale took it as encouragement to continue.

“I am rather in love with you, you see,” Aziraphale said gently, so gently, and _oh Satan Below_ _fuck it all what?_ “And you deserve to know that.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up and his jaw hung open. “C-Come again?” he managed, strangled.

The angel pressed his lips together. “I love you. I don’t expect this to change anything, of course, but…I wanted you to know.”

Nothing made sense. Crowley sat there for a minute, trying to process it before ultimately giving up. This was simply beyond comprehension. “What are you talking about, angel?” he asked, voice cracking embarrassingly. He knew his eyes must be fully gold by now.

Aziraphale blushed, looking down at his hands. “I know it must seem strange. It’s such a human thing, after all, to fall in love. I was going to just keep it to myself, but I couldn’t help but think about it during the wedding yesterday. If we – anyway. And after everything with Heaven, and how cruel Hell is, I just felt like…you really ought to know that someone loves you like you deserve. You’re a good person, Crowley, much as you object to it. I want you to know that is all. That I appreciate you.”

“A-Aziraphale,” Crowley croaked. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Those were _his_ words for Aziraphale; that was the way _he_ felt. Yet, it was being said at him. For him. From his angel – _his_ angel, and this time he wouldn’t correct the thought – to him, a demon. This was completely and utterly, incomprehensibly _bananas_. “Angel, are you being serious? This isn’t – it’s not a joke, right? And you don’t mean angelic love, do you?” He needed to hear it. Had to be sure.

Aziraphale shook his head, staring at the floor off to the side, enough so that Crowley couldn’t see his face. “I mean _romantically_ ,” he admitted in a whisper. “I’m sorry if I’m making you feel awkward, but I-“

“Angel,” Crowley interrupted. “Will you marry me?”

Crowley felt bravery soaring through his veins. He could face Satan with this. He could take down Heaven and Hell with a tire iron (again) if Aziraphale loved him. The very air he breathed was tinged with a flavor he couldn’t place, something like binder’s glue and pastry cream, and whatever the cologne was that the angel had switched to three months ago. It was familiar, it was like pure joy, and Crowley reached out to place a hand atop Aziraphale’s clasped ones.

Maybe he had known all along, after all.

Aziraphale looked at him, the very image of shock and utter bewilderment, but he didn’t pull away. Crowley was half leaned across the couch, expression hopeful and vulnerable and oh, so in love, he could hardly stand it. _Is this what Grace felt like, Before? A love like this?_

“Wha – will I _what?”_ Aziraphale asked disbelievingly, freeing a hand to press to his heart, mouth hung open. “Really?”

“I love you too, angel,” he said calmly, staring into Aziraphale’s eyes, an ocean of emotions and colliding waves within, and a glint of his holy nature in the way the light reflected in them. “Aziraphale, I love you. Always have. You deserve to know that too, every Satan blessed day, so will you marry me? Like humans do?”

“Well. Well, I…” Aziraphale blinked rapidly as tears filled his eyes. “Yes, I…I will.”

Crowley’s heart soared (such a cliché, but he deserved his clichés). “You will?”

Aziraphale chuckled wetly, unclasping his hands to wrap them around Crowley’s. “I can’t believe you even asked me, but yes. I would really love nothing more.” He smiled at him so tenderly, the demon was sure he’d burst. “The mugs – I didn’t really think you’d…well. I didn’t think you could possibly want to. You seemed so dour at Anathema and Newt’s, yesterday.”

A single tear escaped Aziraphale’s eye and Crowley reached out to wipe it away carefully. “That’s because I thought _you_ wouldn’t want to. Even if you did love me back, for some reason.”

“For some reason?” Aziraphale repeated back indignantly, shaking his head. “There are so many reasons, dear. Your kindness and your laughter and your tenacity and your mirth! Oh, I could fill novels of reasons and still need more eras to write it all down.”

Crowley shook his head in bafflement, feeling his cheeks grow red at the angel’s declarations. He still felt a bit like his brain was catching up with it all. It was so, well, _fast._ “Is this even real?” he murmured, staring at their hands.

“That’s my question, truly, but I’m quite sure it is,” Aziraphale replied. “Oh!”

Crowley looked back to the angel’s face at the exclamation. “What? What is it?”

“Rings!” Aziraphale said excitedly. He snapped his fingers and a box appeared in his hand. “Oh, how exciting! I never thought I’d get to use these when I bought them!”

Crowley stared at the little velvet box with astonishment. “Huh?” he replied very intelligently.

Aziraphale took up Crowley’s left hand and cracked open the box with a snap. “I came across these in a vintage shop; they’re a matching pair from a couple who lived in the 19th century. I couldn’t resist them, though, of course, I could never bring myself to do anything with them.” He plucked a ring from the box. “Until now.” With that, he slid it over Crowley’s ring finger in one simple stroke, the band of plain silver inset with a blue gem, cold against his skin, but comfortable and solid and _real._

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. This was really happening.

“You…you got me a ring,” Crowley muttered, staring at it in awe as he drew it toward his face to look at it more closely. “You got me a ring.”

Aziraphale looked at him so tenderly and held the box out to him. “Would you…do the honors?” he asked. Crowley accepted it, staring with wide, golden eyes at the second ring nestled in the velvet, a gold band with a red gem, in the same style as Crowley’s. Each of their preferred metals, and the opposite’s colors nestled safely within.

It was so symbolic it ached.

Crowley took up the ring with all the reverence in the world and looked at Aziraphale, mouth opening and closing. “You…you really…”

“I do,” Aziraphale replied, holding out his left hand like a princess waiting to be kissed. Crowley held it gently, steading it unsuccessfully as he was shaking just as much as the angel was (at least they were both as overwhelmed), and he slipped the gold band onto his ring finger.

“Save those words for the wedding,” Crowley murmured teasingly before realizing _oh fuck they’re going to have to have a wedding now. Oh God. Oh Satan. Oh Whomever, Someone, all of the above and below and between._

The angel and demon sat in silence, regarding their rings. Eventually, they looked back up at each other with some astonishment before breaking out into matching grins, hands finding each other across a chasm of years.

“You’re my fiancé,” Aziraphale whispered reverently.

Crowley could only nod. Swallowing, he managed a smirk. “Anathema is going to go feral when we tell her.”

Aziraphale laughed, that beautiful sound. “She did rather seem like she felt we ought to be a couple. I got the sense that she looked at us a certain way sometimes.”

“Mmm. Yeah.” Crowley smacked his lips and glanced away. “I may or may not have told her I’m in love with you about a year ago.”

“You _what?_ Really?” He sounded delighted.

“Well, more like she told me I did and didn’t give me a chance to say otherwise,” he elaborated. “Not that I could. Anyway, she’s been goading me ever since to tell you.”

Aziraphale grinned. “What a sweet girl. It’s lovely that she cares so much.”

Crowley shrugged as though he totally didn’t care about the companionship at all. “She’s fine, I guess. It’s whatever. No big deal. Can I kiss you?”

Aziraphale looked neither surprised nor taken aback at the abrupt question, though he gave a small chuckle. He reached out and placed a hand on the demon’s cheek, gently. “I was wondering if you were going to.”

Crowley blinked. He honestly hadn’t meant to ask; it had just slipped out. Not that he didn’t want to. He did. Desperately and obsessively, in fact. “That’s…a yes?”

Aziraphale just looked at him, tenderness etched into his beautiful wrinkles, and nodded.

It wasn’t so bad, liking human things.

_Contact: Book Girl_

_1:47 PM_

_Hey, can we steal your ugly fiancé mugs_

_1:48 PM_

_OMG FUCK YES YOU IDIOT I’m telling Adam rn_

_1:48 PM_

_Don’t make a thing out of it!!_

_1:50 PM_

_Oh I absolutely will, you’ve been torturing me for a year complaining and pining_

_And yes, take the mugs, we barely used them anyway lol_

_They were a gift from Newt’s mother_

_1:51 PM_

_Don’t call it pining, that sounds so undignified_

_K thanks_

_1:53 PM_

_Okay everyone knows, I sent it in the group chat_

_1:55 PM_

_I know that! I’m in the group chat!!_

_1:56 PM_

_Wedding dates? Gimme_

_1:57 PM_

_You’re a menace_

_1:58 PM_

_I’ll let you know when we’ve got a day_

_1:59 PM_

_Good_

_Oh, and Crowley?_

_2:00 PM_

_?_

_2:01 PM_

_I’m proud of you :)_

_2:02 PM_

_Stfu_

_…thanks_

**Author's Note:**

> Never written a proposal for these two, but I thought I might give it a go. It’s so sappy. I don’t know what I’m doing.  
> So now the question is: do you want me to finish out this series with a wedding fic? The completionist in me says I should, but I’ve never written anything like that before so it may suck and I’m promising you nothing. Lemme know.


End file.
